"Fear love," you had said it so earnestly that I still haven't forgotten-- those hollow circles running orbits around your tired eyes said you hadn't slept as long as you were thinking about this. "Make all your mistakes first, then let the rest be pefect." You didn't seem very calm, I noted as my I rubbed my moist palms against my pants to hide the old nervousness that creeps up when I think about all the failing things I've done for you. It's like taking your name in vain to even utter it anymore, so I just look at you and pretend I'm smiling, knowing full well that I'm not.
I have no idea what you're talking about, because I'm so nervous about not being nervous or betraying the slightest sign of discomfort. It doesn't matter, though-- we stopped listening to each other awhile ago. It's just words exchanged like so many grammar school valentine day cards-- you have to give some to everyone and you expect at least what you gave out, but you don't mean whatever it was you wrote on the inside.
I'm sure there's some significance to your words, all of them, but I didn't pay attention until you said, "Fear love." Somehow you wrested my attention from my steady control, and for that I've awarded you the favour of my restless thought on the matter. I can't make all my mistakes first. They had to be made when they were made. Isn't that much obvious? I crashed on through love boldly, never realising my fatal flaw. I wasn't afraid.